The Vauxhall Project
by gwenweybourne
Summary: A cycle of mini-fics following the arc of Series One and Two, inspired by the Morrissey album "Vauxhall and I." One chapter per song. Series 2 spoilers. From different character POVs, but mainly Sherlock.
1. Author Note

It all started on Tumblr. Doesn't it always? I was scrolling through the Sherlock tag and someone posted that Morrissey's song "Spring-Heeled Jim" was a perfect fit for Jim Moriarty.

_Huh_, I thought. _It really, really is!_

I've loved the _Vauxhall and I_ album for ages — ever since it was released, basically. I went back to listen to "Spring Heeled Jim" and suddenly other songs started to make sense in the Sherlock storyline. By the time I finished listening to the entire album, this story cycle had more or less formed itself in my head. Every song is matched to a character and a point in the Series 1/2 story arc. Most often "filling in the blanks" or climbing into a character's head. I always try to fit at least one lyric from each song into the story.

I'll admit that a couple of these vignettes might be a bit of a stretch, but I'd say that 90% of this album could be used as an alternate soundtrack for the series.

So, I highly recommend that you listen to the songs either during or after you read the stories. Look at the lyrics. I'll also be posting the chapters and video links on my Tumblr (URL: gwenweybourne). The entire album is available for listening on YouTube. But if you like it, maybe you want to purchase it. Mozzer would like that. And I want to thank him for the inspiration and I hope he, Moffat, and Gatiss don't mind me leaching off their genius a little bit. I don't own the characters or the songs/lyrics and I am not making a cent off this project. Just enjoying myself. I hope you enjoy yourselves, too.

Welcome to the Vauxhall Project.


	2. Prelude: Now My Heart Is Full

_There's gonna be some trouble_  
_A whole house will need re-building_  
_And everyone I love in the house_  
_Will recline on an analyst's couch quite soon_

* * *

He stepped onto the edge of the roof for the second time that day. Moriarty lay dead on the ground behind him, blood pooling under his shattered skull. It had all happened so fast. Sherlock's heart was pounding. So hard he could feel it in his ears, which were still ringing from Moriarty's gunshot.

By now John would have figured out that Mrs. Hudson was alive and well. That he'd been tricked and he would be rushing back to Bart's. Not much time left.

John. Sherlock was going to have to do something awful to John now. And then he was going to have to leave. For how long, he didn't know. As long as it took to ensure the safety of his friends.

Friends. If Sherlock hadn't been so deadly focused on the moment and what he was about to do, he might have laughed a little. Friends. Him? Have friends? How on earth did that happen? His life had changed so much in the past eighteen months. Ever since he met John and moved into 221B. Suddenly — and for the first time in his life — there were people who actually mattered and apparently he mattered to them, as well. He was wrong. He had more than one friend. He didn't have too many, but he loved them. And he was going to break their hearts.

He was going to die for them.

Despite the way his body was reacting, Sherlock wasn't afraid. His nerves were steady and his heart felt … full. He couldn't explain it. He knew what he had to do and he had absolutely no doubts about it. The plan was in place. Molly was ready.

A cab tore down the street and pulled up in front of Bart's.

Sherlock took out his phone and dialled John.

_There's going to be some trouble …_

"John. Turn around and go back the way you came …"

_I'm sorry, John._


	3. Used To Be a Sweet Boy

_Used to be a sweet boy  
And I'm not to blame  
But something went wrong_

* * *

_You used to be a sweet boy …_

The words "I don't know what happened" weren't uttered aloud, but Sherlock didn't need to hear them to know that was what Mummy meant.

Sherlock knew what had happened. And so did Mycroft. It was bound to happen at some point — Sherlock would be introduced to the world and the world would not know what to do with Sherlock.

He'd been cosseted as a child; he was well aware of that. He was different. "Special" was the word Mummy liked to use. He was endlessly curious and wilful. Always asking questions and never satisfied with the answers. His intelligence had been carefully tended and nurtured by his parents, but most especially by his equally clever older brother. But Sherlock lacked certain qualities that Mycroft possessed: namely social skills, a sense of filial duty, and impulse control. Oh, he was no animal, of course. He could conduct himself in front of Mummy and Daddy's friends and even charm when he could be bothered to make the effort. He was often easily forgiven in his more sour moments, as he was a beautiful, willowy child with wide, pale eyes, and milky skin set off by a dark mop of wild curls. His father complained about Sherlock's hair and wondered why they didn't have it shorn more closely to keep it under control, but Mummy insisted. "There will be plenty of time when he is older to tame his features." In the meantime, Sherlock was always welcomed into her lap, eager to be petted by her soft hands and to tell her of his latest accomplishments. "Mummy did Mycroft know how to speak French at my age? He did? Had he mastered the pluperfect tense because I have!"

He was welcomed everywhere in the house. Into Daddy's study, into Mycroft's chair to be read a story even though he was perfectly capable of reading it himself, but he preferred to let Mycroft do the work of reading the words while Sherlock merely had to listen and look at the pictures, sometimes turning the page before Mycroft was done. "That part's boring. Skip to the part where Alice goes through the looking-glass."

Why tame something that persisted in growing wild? Maybe they thought he'd grow out of it. Or maybe it was just easier to let the outside world do it. Whatever it was, Sherlock had only been a child. He wasn't to blame for what happened.

The first cracks appeared when he overheard Mummy talking to Mycroft about school. As the time drew nearer for Sherlock to leave the nursery and be sent away to school. He wasn't afraid about leaving home. If Mycroft had done it, then he could do it, too. And he'd do it better. But he'd been playing quietly with his toy cars (which he'd taken apart and re-assembled by mixing and matching the parts to achieve a more efficient velocity) when he heard Mummy and Mycroft speaking in low tones.

"_You must watch out for your brother, Mycroft. You have to promise me."_

"_Of course, Mummy. Of course. But you know I can't be with him all the time. He will have to learn and adjust. And I will be graduating long before him."_

"_I know that, darling. But until then you need to teach him so he can look after himself when you have left. You know how worried I am. Sherlock is so …"_

"_Different."_

"_Yes. I fear the other children will not understand him. I wonder now if we failed him by not preparing him more for this experience."_

"_Don't worry, Mummy. Sherlock is an exceedingly clever boy. He will make you proud. He'll make all of us proud."_

It was the first time Sherlock had any inkling that he was different. It was the first time he'd ever felt afraid.

* * *

The day came for the Holmes brothers to go to school. It was to be a proud day for Mummy, Daddy, and Mycroft, with Sherlock taking his first steps into the world. He was dressed in his new school uniform and as Mycroft helped him with his necktie, kneeling behind Sherlock in front of the mirror so the younger boy could once again see how it was done, Sherlock felt like he was being outfitted with a noose.

"I don't like it, Mycroft," he whimpered softly, lips trembling.

"Shhh, you'll get used to it, little brother," Mycroft soothed, stroking Sherlock's curls, which had finally been trimmed down to a more respectable length. "It's a big change, I know, but you must be brave. I want you to smile for Mummy. She'll be sad if she sees you are afraid."

"I don't want to go," Sherlock said fiercely, tugging at the knot. "Why can't I stay here? I can study from home. Daddy can hire tutors. Why do I have to go?"

Mycroft reached up and gently pried Sherlock's small hand away from the knot before adjusting it and then straightening Sherlock's blazer, smoothing down the lapels. "It is tradition, Sherlock. I go to this school, Daddy went, Grandfather went, and so on. It is our duty to carry on these traditions. As the youngest, you've been spared from some of these duties, but as you get older, there will be things expected of you. You must attend school and you will excel. I know you will."

"Of course I will," Sherlock huffed. "I will be the smartest boy in my year."

"And a few years above that. So what are you worried about?"

Sherlock frowned, thinking of telling Mycroft about the conversation he'd overheard. And several others since: all seeming to have the same refrain: _What are we going to do about Sherlock?_

But instead he shrugged and lowered his gaze. "Nothing," he said softly.

"That's a good boy. Now let's go show Mummy and Daddy how handsome you look."

* * *

_Goodbye, my sweet boy. Make Mummy and Daddy proud._

Goodbye indeed.

It had taken only two days before Sherlock received his first bloody nose in the yard following a class where he had scolded another boy for getting the answer wrong when the teacher had called on him. That was what Mycroft always did when Sherlock got an answer wrong, so he didn't understand when the boy called him a word he'd never heard before and hit him in the face. He heard laughter and when he touched his face, his fingers came away wet with blood. He wanted to cry, but somehow knew that would make things worse.

Mycroft was summoned after Sherlock had seen the nurse and he'd gently tipped up Sherlock's chin to examine the damage.

"It's not the same as at home, brother mine. You can't speak to your classmates the way you speak to me."

"Why not?" he'd asked petulantly.

"First of all, you don't know them very well yet and they don't know you. Try being a bit nicer."

"Nice? Boring."

"It's the way we get on in this world, Sherlock. You'll see."

* * *

Before long Sherlock had the reputation of being strange and unpleasant. He didn't understand the rules of social engagement. They were entirely different from what he'd experienced at home with his family. And the rules seemed to change at random. His grades were the highest in his class, but he couldn't master interacting with his fellow pupils. It wasn't long before they turned on him completely: knocking books out of his arms, passing nasty notes in class, pushing him into walls and tripping him in the yard.

Even Mycroft became a tormentor. It used to be that Sherlock could hardly bear to have his brother out of his sight, but now he dreaded his visits. His incessant attempts to "teach" Sherlock how to be normal. How to make friends and stop being a target. Each "instructional session" left Sherlock more resentful and bitter. He closed up. He began to harden and even Mycroft noticed a new steeliness to his baby brother's formerly curious, open gaze.

He developed an interest in boxing and spent hours pummelling a bag and learning proper technique. The next boy who tried to hit him ended up with five stitches in his cheek and restricted privileges for Sherlock, who didn't even care because he had nowhere to go and no one to see.

At home during the holidays, he bristled when Mummy petted him and became sullen when Daddy asked him questions about school. He ignored Mycroft entirely.

Then there was the day when one of his casual, cutting remarks made Mummy cry.

Sherlock had blinked, surprised by this response and entirely unsure of what to do.

"You used to be such a sweet boy …" she said tearfully.

Sherlock merely shrugged helplessly. "Was I?" he answered softly. "I can't even remember anymore."


	4. I Am Hated For Loving

_I am hated for loving_  
_Anonymous call, a poison pen_  
_A brick in the small of the back again_  
_I still don't belong_  
_To anyone - I am mine_

* * *

"Seb, why did you have to bring the freak along with you? He's putting me off my breakfast." Tim wasn't even trying to speak in a low voice. Sherlock could hear him as he returned to the table with a cup of coffee. No food. Food was boring. Slowed him down. As long as he had coffee and cocaine, he could keep going almost indefinitely. Which was good because life at Oxford did not allow for luxuries like sleep.

"He followed me down. He's got hearing like a bat and I don't think he ever sleeps. What was I supposed to do?" Sebastian hissed.

"You could tell me to piss off," Sherlock remarked, sitting down in front of the pile of books and papers he'd brought down with him from his room. He looked his residence-mates: Seb, Tim, Andrew, and Laurence. "That's what people usually say to me."

"Why do you always have to be such a wanker, Holmes?" Tim snapped.

"Tim …" Seb muttered.

"Oh, shut up, Wilkes," Tim said. "Don't try to play peacemaker. He drives you just as mental as the rest of us."

Sherlock's mouth twitched a fraction. "All I do is observe. Intriguing how much it seems to bother you. What are you hiding?"

"Nothing!" Tim threw his hands up in the hair. "Not a bloody thing. Not with you skulking about, telling me who I shagged last night based on a mark on my neck and some mud on my shoes."

"It was lipstick. Pretty obvious," Sherlock huffed.

"What about the mud?" Laurence piped up.

"Well, from the colour and consistency, it was—"

"Oh, shut up, both of you!" Tim exclaimed.

Sherlock shrugged.

"What?" Laurence said helplessly. "I wasn't there the first time around. I want to know how he knew …"

"No, you don't," said Tim sharply, then turned to glare at Sherlock. "Nobody gives a toss about your little party trick, Holmes."

"It's not a trick. It's deduction."

"I don't care what it is. Just keep it to yourself. Because no one wants to hear it, freak. Just piss off and leave me alone." Tim stood up and glared at Andrew and Laurence until they followed suit.

"You coming, Wilkes?" Tim was not really asking a question.

Seb sighed. "Yeah, in a minute."

The trio strode out of the dining hall, leaving Seb and Sherlock alone.

"Why do you make things so hard on yourself?" Seb asked.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "I don't know what you mean."

"Tim's a good bloke. He really is. But you push you people too hard and they snap. And you wonder why you don't have any friends here?"

"I don't wonder about that," said Sherlock, eyes fixed on the book in front of him. "I know I don't have friends. I never have."

"You think you might want to do something to change that?"

Sherlock sighed. "What for? It's more important to hone my deductive skills."

"Oh?" It was Seb's turn to raise an eyebrow. "How do you reckon?"

"It's how I intend to make my way in the world."

Seb laughed. "What? You think people are going to pay you to annoy the shit out of them?"

Sherlock shrugged nonchalantly and looked at Seb, his crystal gaze as piercing as always. It always unsettled Seb just a little bit. "Maybe someday you'll be the one paying me to 'annoy' you, Seb," Sherlock said quietly. "Stranger things have happened."

"God forbid," Seb scoffed, standing up. "Suit yourself if you want do things the hard way. Just stay out of Tim's way, yeah? Or you could end up with a broken nose."

"I somehow doubt that. I am an excellent boxer and it's obvious that Tim couldn't fight his way out of a wet paper sack."

Seb rolled his eyes and shoved his chair back under the table. "And for god's sake, Holmes, try to eat something? We all know you're a bloody junkie, but you're really starting to look the part."

Sherlock looked up sharply to see Seb's retreating form. Was it that obvious? He hadn't looked in the mirror in days. In fact, he couldn't quite remember the last time he'd taken a shower. Who had time to shower when the work beckoned?"

The work was everything and everything was the work. It was the only thing Sherlock could rely on. It was the only thing he loved.

And he was hated for loving it.

But that didn't matter. People didn't matter. They never had. Nothing had changed since he'd started school as a child. People still found him as offensive and strange as ever. Even more so, since it was something he had decided to embrace and encourage. If he didn't care, he didn't get hurt, and if he didn't get hurt, he could remain impartial and not let silly emotions cloud his view. He wanted to observe everything. See everything. Know everything.

He belonged to no one except himself. Alone was what he had. Alone protected him. He didn't need anyone and he never would.


	5. The More You Ignore Me, the Closer I Get

_The more you ignore me_  
_The closer I get_  
_You're wasting your time_

_I am now_  
_A central part_  
_Of your mind's landscape_  
_Whether you care_  
_Or do not_  
_Yeah, I've made up your mind_

* * *

Sherlock had made up his mind about John Watson the moment he held the other man's mobile phone in his hand. His mind whirred and in a moment he had well-rounded thumbnail sketch of the lonely, proud, crippled army doctor who had been delivered to Bart's by Stamford.

_Yes, Stamford, you did well. Far better than I expected. And far more quickly. Since Mycroft decided to tighten the purse strings beyond all fairness, I was dreading having to share my space with some dullard, but I think this may be an entirely positive outcome._

He sat in his chair at his new flat at 221b Baker Street. Three young men were hauling his things up the narrow flights of stairs. Occasionally there were questions.

"Where d'ye want this to go, Mr. Holmes?"

"Label. On the box. Read the label on the box. That's what labels are for," Sherlock muttered, preoccupied by a news article on his phone.

"Now, say, what about this?"

"Label …" Sherlock murmured, flicking his fingers as if he could shoo the words away.

"But there's no label, sir. It looks like … wuzzat thing they kill whales with?"

"I think it's a harpoon!" another chimed in.

"Yes, yes, it's a harpoon," said Sherlock impatiently. "Just prop it up in the corner. I'll find a place for it later. Focus on the boxes and furniture. Hurry now, I have things to tend to before my appointment at 7 o'clock."

Mrs. Hudson entered the flat, letting out a surprised sound as she narrowly skirted one of the men.

"Pardon me, ma'am."

"Oh, goodness," she exclaimed. "Quite all right, yes." She turned to look at Sherlock. "You hired movers, did you? I didn't realize you had so many …" she turned and looked around in a mixture of awe and concern at the clutter already filling the flat "… things."

"They're not movers," murmured Sherlock, squinting at a new site on his phone. _The Personal Blog of John H. Watson_. Two entries.

_Nothing._

_Nothing happens to me._

Interesting.

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock frowned and looked up at Mrs. Hudson with an _are you still here?_ expression. "Yes?"

"If they're not movers, then who are they?"

"Homeless network," Sherlock replied before heaving himself out of his chair. "Mind giving me a hand in organizing a few things, Mrs. Hudson? My new flatmate will be around at 7 o'clock and I want him to be able to properly move around the place. He has a bad leg."

Mrs. Hudson picked up an Erlenmeyer flask and stared at it in confusion. "You found one already? But he hasn't even seen the flat yet!"

"Oh, he hasn't agreed to move in yet. But he will."

Mrs. Hudson chuckled softly and set the flask on the kitchen table. _Must be some kind of modern crockery. He does have a bit of an artistic flair … wonder what the other one will be like._ "Oh, Sherlock, if you say it, then it must be so."

Sherlock appreciated the landlady's unwavering faith in his abilities. He knew he had chosen well when seeking new accommodations. Some of his previous landlords had been far less understanding of his proclivities.

He appreciated it even more when Mrs. Hudson played along, greeting him warmly when he arrived with John; as if it had been weeks instead of hours since he'd last seen her. Standing in the flat with her and John, Sherlock thought once again, _I have chosen extremely well this time._

* * *

_Amazing_.

John Watson thought he was amazing. And he came to the crime scene with Sherlock. Of course he did. Once Sherlock had got him to admit he missed the danger and excitement he'd experienced at war. Another step deeper into the doctor's psyche. Before the night was out, Sherlock intended to be fully ingrained. All right, so John hadn't been terribly useful in adding to the information about the case, but that could be worked on. And besides, the cachet of having a doctor at his side would prove invaluable. And the confusion on Sally Donovan's face had been worth it. The crass comment about the state of her knees was even a bit beyond the pale in terms of Sherlock's insensitive jabs, but he had to maintain an image of superiority in front of his new to-be flatmate.

Amazing. Extraordinary. Brilliant. The complimentary adjectives kept spilling from the older man's mouth. That itself was rather amazing. If Sherlock's mind wasn't already made up about the doctor, it was doubly so now. Now it was just a matter of making up John's mind for him. Should be easy enough. First, time to conduct a little experiment. He set the pink case aside and flopped back on the couch, typing out a rapid text.

_Baker Street. Come at once if convenient. SH._

He waited for a few moments, then tapped out another for good measure.

_If inconvenient come anyway. SH._

He slapped the second nicotine patch on and waited. After more than ten minutes, his phone remained silent.

_Don't think you can ignore me, Doctor. I know better. And I have something to show you._

He picked up his phone and tapped out another missive.

_Could be dangerous._

Two minutes later his phone pinged.

Sherlock smiled. And reached for a third patch before closing his eyes. Back to work.

* * *

He knew it! Oh, he was _good_. He'd taken off in pursuit of the taxi and John had followed him. John was running. John was jumping.

John had left his cane behind at Angelo's.

He had a full range of movement. Psychosomatic, indeed. All the doctor needed was some excitement. The thrill of the chase. A puzzle to solve. Sherlock could give him all that in spades. In return he got a flatmate and an assistant. A man who thought he was brilliant and amazing. A man who could walk properly again. It would be the deciding factor. The final nudge in Sherlock making up John's mind for him.

Back at Baker Street, they were leaning against the wall in the hallway, breathless and laughing and Sherlock couldn't remember the last time he really laughed _with_ someone. He rarely laughed at all and when he did, it was usually at someone because they were being idiotic and slow. He enjoyed this experience with John a bit more.

"Mrs. Hudson, Doctor Watson _will_ take the room upstairs," he called out.

"Says who?" said John.

"Says the man at the door."

Angelo arrived on cue. And when John reached out to take the cane Angelo was returning, he glanced back at Sherlock and the detective knew then and there it was decided. As if there were any other possible outcome. Sherlock always got his way in the end. The sooner John Watson learned that, the better.


	6. Why Don't You Find Out for Yourself

_You'll never believe me, so,  
__Why don't you find out for yourself?  
__Sick down to my heart  
__But that's just the way it goes._

* * *

All was quiet in the car as the driver carried Mycroft and Anthea away from the crime scene. Sherlock had come perilously close to dying via poisoning at the hands of a psychopathic cab driver. Who took a bullet in the head by a mysterious assassin and Mycroft had not missed the fine misting of blood on Sherlock's shirt cuff and even though it wasn't his brother's blood, the image made Mycroft's own blood run cold. But as usual, Sherlock held no concept of his own mortality and had swanned off for a late Chinese dinner with his new playmate.

Of course, the elder Holmes had managed to keep up appearances when he confronted his brother and they finally let John Watson in on the little secret of their family connection. Arch enemy indeed. Only from Sherlock's point of view. But as soon as they were back in the car, Mycroft sank into a pensive silence, resting his elbow on the armrest, chin propped between thumb and forefinger. To anyone else it looked like a typical reflective pose, but Anthea knew better.

"Sir, are you all right?" she inquired softly, with the perfect amount of _I-don't-mean-to-intrude_ hesitance. Anthea always knew exactly how to conduct herself. "What do you need?"

"Need," Mycroft intoned quietly. _I need Sherlock to take some responsibility for himself. I need him to stop getting mixed up in things that may get him killed. I need him to understand that I only want to help. To protect him. He needs it more than he can possibly understand._

He thought all of this, but Anthea could procure none of these things for him, so it was illogical to ask for them.

"I need, Anthea," he said softly, wearily, "a drink at the Diogenes Club."

Anthea delivered the request to the driver and Mycroft sank back into his ruminations once again.

* * *

At the club, Mycroft let the silence settle around him like a warm cloak. As a man charged with continually creating order out of chaos, the Diogenes was a necessary refuge. When he wasn't sorting through problems of international importance, he was fretting about Sherlock.

The introduction of Doctor Watson into his brother's life had the appearance of being a positive development. Exactly why Sherlock was taken with him was still unclear to Mycroft, since during their little "meeting," the elder Holmes had deduced nothing incredibly extraordinary about John. But he appeared to be principled, wary, and strong-willed: all good things. But it was still very curious because Sherlock, as a rule, did not like people. He was a man of science and only interacted with people when it was related to his work. He simply did not smile at people and take them to dinner.

His work. _Good lord_. Mycroft took a deep draught of his Scotch and rested his forehead in his hand. Sherlock was a genius — for all his social deficiencies, the world could be his simply due to his extraordinary intelligence. That fine, razor-sharp mind. But instead he chose to live in near poverty, showing off for Scotland Yard. Mycroft had taken charge of Sherlock's access to the Holmes family money back when Sherlock was in uni and was emotionally manipulating Mummy into bankrolling his drug habit. Sherlock was clean — for now, but Mycroft always suspected that easy access to the funds would have him back on the spike before too long. And Sherlock was simply too proud to demand it, so for now this was how things stood. He had hoped that the most recent restrictions would force Sherlock into some more reliable kind of occupation, but he went got himself a bloody flatmate to make ends meet. A flatmate — Sherlock! Mycroft still couldn't wrap his head around it. It was the last thing he'd predicted his brother would do. The idea that he could stand to share a living space with another person. Doctor Watson was in for some trying times, indeed.

Any suggestions and thinly veiled demands Mycroft had made regarding the need for Sherlock to pursue an alternate means of making his living and making the most of his gifts had fallen on deaf ears. Just as they had when they were schoolboys.

_Why don't you find out for yourself, then?_

That had been his constant refrain, back when he let his frustration with his wilful baby brother get the best of him. He'd throw his hands up in the air. "I'm offering you sound advice, Sherlock. I wish you would take advantage of my experience and just listen to me. I know of what I speak."

"Oh yes, you know. You always know everything, don't you?" the then-teenaged Sherlock had sneered at him. "Clever Mycroft — I suppose you've never made a mistake in your life."

"Plenty," Mycroft had intoned. "And I just want you to avoid them. But I suppose you'll have to find out for yourself."

"I look forward to it."

* * *

There was so much Sherlock didn't know. And would have to find out for himself, if he even cared to know. He didn't know what had gone on in the years between Mycroft's finishing school and where he was now. The eldest son, forging his own way in the world. Oh, certainly, the family name had helped open doors, but the path Mycroft had chosen relied almost exclusively on his intelligence, discretion, foresight, and cunning. The political world was a dangerous — even more dangerous than the one into which Sherlock kept inserting himself. A different kind of danger, though. Mycroft had learned some hard lessons. Been stabbed in the back and betrayed and turned on. Oh, the perpetrators had eventually been punished, but those had been difficult times. He'd felt vulnerable and terribly alone — in the days before Anthea, the Diogenes, and his secure network of contacts and operatives — and had often wished he could have turned to Sherlock. But by then his brother — his beautiful, brilliant baby brother who had worshipped him as boy — was gone. Replaced by a hard-eyed, cruel-tongued man who was obsessed with two things: his drugs and his work. The few times Mycroft had attempted to speak to him, Sherlock had simply sat there, his lanky frame lolling over the sofa, eyes glazed and vacant. And then he laughed; a cruel, hollow sound. "Oh, Mycroft. Not so perfect after all. Whatever will Mummy say now that the golden boy has fallen?"

Regardless, Mycroft was duty-bound to keep an eye on Sherlock. He'd promised Mummy on the first day of Sherlock's schooling and he intended to honour it. And not just because their mother had asked it of him. He loved Sherlock. And had not been lying when he'd told John that he worried about him … constantly. Sometimes to the point where it made him feel sick. But it was something he'd simply learned to endure.

For all of his deductive genius, Sherlock was truly oblivious to many things around him. Likely things he'd dismissed as beneath his notice. And other things that were simply too far above his head for him to see. But Mycroft saw all. He knew how special Sherlock was, and what he could accomplish if his brilliance was harnessed and directed in various ways. He'd been approached by interested government parties. And had heard rumblings of more nefarious ones.

Fortunately, Sherlock was obstinate and so fiercely independent that it would likely be a cold day in Hades when he could be persuaded to join any kind of team, force, or organization. His work with the Yard was completely based upon his personal whims. No one ever told Sherlock Holmes what to do.

Especially Mycroft Holmes. But still he persisted in the surveillance and keeping darker forces at bay. If Sherlock would not permit Mycroft to look after him directly, he would continue to do so indirectly. Some may call it meddling, but Mycroft preferred to think of it as brotherly love.

And now there was Doctor Watson, whom Mycroft prayed would help curtail some of Sherlock's wilder tendencies. He drained the rest of his drink and rubbed the spot between his eyes, feeling a headache blooming. There was something terribly unsettling about what had nearly happened to Sherlock tonight. Mycroft knew more than enough about dark machinations and syndicates and everything about this case smacked of a higher power. This went far beyond a murderous taxi driver. Someone was pulling the strings at the other end. As a master string-puller himself, Mycroft knew when one of his ilk — albeit working for the other side — was lurking about. And Sherlock was putting himself in his or her cross-hairs.

Mycroft could only hope that he would find them before Sherlock did.

Indeed, the game was on.


	7. Spring Heeled Jim

**A/N: To paraphrase an earlier song, "Tell all of my reviewers — I don't have too many …" Thank you so much for your comments and feedback. I'm sorry this next chapter was a bit slower in coming. I'm hoping to update a bit more on the regular this week. And thanks to those who've been reading along, as well. It's all appreciated more than you know.**

_Spring-heeled Jim winks an eye  
__He'll "do," he'll never be "done to"  
__He takes on whoever flew through  
_"_Well, it's the normal thing to do."_

* * *

Jim Moriarty reclined languorously in the back seat of the luxury sedan, slipping his phone back into the inside pocket of his tailored Westwood jacket. Once in a while — in a very long while — events of the day would conspire to surprise him. It was incredibly rare as he was accustomed to being completely bored by the world and everything and everyone in it pretty much all the time. One day after the next like one foot in front of the other. _Plod, plod, plod_. If anyone knew what it was like inside his head, they would understand why he did the things he did. And until recently he didn't think he would ever meet anyone who grasped the concept with any kind of clarity. Generally people were too slow to come even close.

But suddenly, there he was. Oh, and he was glorious. He really was. Dangerously so. Where on earth had he come from? What kind of circumstances created a Sherlock Holmes? Anything similar to what had created a James Moriarty? It was difficult to say — Jim wasn't even certain himself as to why he was the way he was. How he'd been created and how the world had shaped him. But he didn't care to dwell on such things. Let the so-called experts sort that out someday. With their theories and nature-versus-nurture debates. How he and Sherlock Holmes came to be wasn't relevant. What mattered was that they existed and while their two orbits remained separate, everything stayed balanced.

But Sherlock had been encroaching on Jim's orbit — his territory, his life's work — a little too often lately. He'd been vaguely aware of the detective's existence for some time now, but he'd seemed relatively harmless. A show-off know-it-all trying to impress the police.

The police. Ugh. The people in the world whom Jim respected the least. Anyone who wanted to impress _them_ must have something wrong with them.

But then Sherlock started getting in the way. Jim would execute one of his beautiful, brilliant machinations — oh, they were works of art, truly — and Sherlock would throw a wrench into it and send all the carefully arranged pieces flying everywhere. The first time with the cabbie — Jim had written it off as a fluke. _Lucky shot, Sherlock. Now go back to your puzzles and let the grown-ups do their jobs._

But then Sherlock had dismantled the smuggling ring and, oh, that was spitting in Jim's eye. It was infuriating. And fascinating. If Sherlock wanted to play, then Jim could play. And he played to win. But first he had to get a good look at his rival. He bided his time. He took an IT job at Bart's and seduced sweet little Molly Hooper. Not that it was difficult. Molly, so besotted by Sherlock and so desperate to make him pay attention. To be seen as the woman she was. A few flirtatious looks with Jim's puppy-dog eyes and some kind words was all it had taken. And then one day he happened to "drop by" while Molly was with Sherlock and John. That had been fun. He had to admit he had been impressed. Maybe others didn't feel or notice Sherlock observing them, but Jim had felt everything — Sherlock's eyes passing over him like gently questing fingertips. A little sexy, really. _Good, detective. So very good. Call me!_ The experience left him incredibly excited for their game.

The game. He really had enjoyed watching Sherlock jump through hoops for days. Running all over the city, solving Jim's little puzzles. And they'd finally gotten a chance to speak, albeit through various mouthpieces. And Jim found himself liking Sherlock more and more. Oh, he still had to be destroyed, of course, but never before had he encountered someone who seemed so familiar. Who lived and thought at the same speed as he did. They were leaps and bounds ahead of everyone else.

_Oh, Sherlock. Does everything seem so slow to you, as well? Isn't it absolutely hateful? You solve puzzles. I create problems. You want to fix things and I want to burn everything and everyone. I want to destroy it all. I'm the best thing that ever happened to you._

_And the worst._

* * *

Jim had mentally planned his day thus:

Wake up.

Stretch.

Thirty minutes of cardio.

Shower.

Shave.

Coffee.

Breakfast.

Correspondence.

Light snack.

Send final plans to sniper team.

Kidnap John Watson.

Kill the doctor and Sherlock Holmes.

Dinner and dancing.

Well, of course he wouldn't be the one to pull the trigger. He never was. But that was plan and the only part of it that really excited him was finally coming face to face with Sherlock. He'd plodded through the day's tasks, _plod, plod, plod_. Dull. Though the charming little melodrama that had ensued when the detective saw his pet all dolled up in bombs and wire had been amusing. A little flair to keep things vaguely interesting for Jim. And the dramatic entrance and big reveal. No one could ever say Jim Moriarty didn't know how to put on a show.

And then it had appeared that Sherlock and John were willing to sacrifice themselves to stop him. How noble. Ugh. He had watched with a clinical interest as Sherlock had aimed the gum at the bomb and turned the proceedings into a game of chicken. Jim had been willing to hold his ground. He was not afraid to die. Not in the slightest. It simply would have been inconvenient because he really was such a terribly busy man — so many irons in so very many fires — and he liked to win. Jim did things — things were not done to him. Doers were winners. People who sat around and waited for things to be done to them were the losers. Always. He'd learned that from an early age and had sworn no one would do anything to him ever again. Oh, they could _try_, of course. Try all they like. But they'd get nothing from him that he didn't choose to give.

And Sherlock wasn't the type to wait around, either. So it made for quite the deadlock. No pun intended. _Dickery, dickery, dock, your time is running out, Sherlock_.

But then — phone call.

Jim had a soft spot for The Bee Gees — oh, come on, who didn't? And really, wasn't it what everyone was trying to do every day? Stay alive. Stasis. Boring.

But the phone call was promising. Jim believed in prioritizing. And Jim believed in not rushing a good plan. Every now and then he believed in signs. This appeared to be one. Irene Adler had something very valuable information. And in return he would get his shot at the Holmes brothers. It was perfect.

So he let the detective and the doctor go. Several weeks ago he would have found such a plan inconceivable, but over the course of the game with Sherlock, Jim found himself wondering if perhaps he'd spoken too soon. Perhaps he was missing out by exterminating Sherlock Holmes too early in the game. Turned out he was right. _Always trust your gut, Jimmy boy._

Time. It was always a matter of time. Once there had been all the time in the world. Now it all seemed to go too fast. _Live at five times the average speed and I suppose that's what you get._

Sherlock would bring Jim right to the edge, he just knew it. And it was thrilling. In the end someone would fall. He certainly didn't intend for it to be him.


	8. Lifeguard Sleeping, Girl Drowning

_It was only a test  
__But she swam too far against the tide  
__She deserves all she gets._

* * *

Mycroft Holmes stared pensively into the flickering flames in the hearth in his living room. He raised the crystal tumbler to his thin lips and sipped the warm Scotch, shuddering ever so slightly as it blazed down his throat. His nose wrinkled briefly as he caught the smell of tobacco from his fingertips. Annoying. He'd washed his hands several times since and the odour still lingered. He wasn't certain what compelled him to smoke that cigarette, the packet bent, stale, dating back to Christmas when he had offered a fag to Sherlock in the morgue after identifying (wrongly as it turned out) the body of Irene Adler. But he could see how Sherlock could cling to the habit. The ritual of it, the burn of the smoke into the lungs, and the slight headiness that resulted, though he was told that sensation quickly ceased with those who practised regularly. The first hit was always the best, didn't they say?

Maybe it was just one step closer to understanding Sherlock a fraction more. Some would say Mycroft knew Sherlock better than anyone else and perhaps that was once true, but though they shared the same blood and lineage, most times his little brother was most inscrutable.

Mycroft's hand reached out to rest on the plastic-bagged package next to him. He'd taken it to John Watson to have him show it to Sherlock. Proof of Irene's "relocation." John had returned the package minus the phone. He'd started to apologize, but Mycroft had waved it off with a small smile, somehow comforted that even Sherlock — on occasion — succumbed to the temptation of sentiment, though he'd never admit it. Especially not after lording it over Irene with such satisfaction.

It was in this very room where that confrontation had occurred. Though months had passed since then, Mycroft still felt the prickle of sweat at the back of his neck when he recalled the day he received the text from Moriarty. The realization that the Bond Air scheme had been thwarted. And all because of Sherlock's incessant need to show off. To impress a beautiful woman. The one woman apparently worth his notice. He doubted there would ever be another.

Mycroft had sat at the long table with his head in his hands. The solitary king with his castle crumbling around him. There were no words for the anger he had felt towards his little brother. The frustration. The sheer rage at something so incredibly stupid being permitted to happen. He'd fantasized about having Sherlock's lifeless body join the rows of corpses on the Flight of the Dead.

Briefly.

_Melodramatic, old boy? _he thought to himself, taking another sip. _Hmmm, no._

That didn't quite compare to the time Sherlock accidentally set the parlour on fire while conducting an experiment or had torn up Mycroft's hand-written graduate thesis notes in a fit of pique. This was the fate of the nation.

Which for several moments had rested in the slender, elegant hands of the most dangerous woman he'd ever met.

The only person he'd seen who had bested Sherlock. At least temporarily. At the very least she was a challenge for him. They were cut from the same cloth in many respects. Brilliant and devious and unapologetic. Fortunately, Sherlock rose to the occasion and managed to salvage most of what had been turning into an untenable situation. The sheer horror Mycroft had been quietly hiding inside as he considered the repercussions of Irene's formidable list of "requests" (rather than demands — she picked odd moments to be stereotypically ladylike) had dissolved into a slightly perverse sense of pleasure as he saw Irene taken down by Sherlock. His hands itched. During their so-called negotiation he'd been dying to wrap his hands around her slender throat and choke her until she simply disappeared. Became nothing.

And in the end, that was what she was.

She had gotten carried away with her own game. Dizzy with the power. Power she'd always had, but had needed a madman's touch to put it into action. Mycroft had relished it the moment. Sending her out into the world without her precious protection.

While a part of him held a modicum of respect for The Woman, mostly Mycroft felt the same sneering disgust he felt for anyone who tried to cross him, be it his brother or a power-mad dominatrix. Sherlock, he was bound to for life. Irene Adler, on the other hand, not so much. In the end, disposing of her had been easy. "There'll be no fuss," he'd assured his superiors. And then his voice had dropped and grown steely. "She was nobody's nothing."

He'd had her under surveillance, of course. Had confirmed the details of her capture and execution. There was no way he would be fooled again by that little bitch. Like he'd said to John, no one short of Sherlock Holmes himself could have fooled him this time.

His eyes drifted to the package again. The missing phone. He exhaled a long breath through his nose. _Could he have? No. Impossible. _

… _he better not have._


	9. Hold On to Your Friends

**A/N: While watching "The Reichenbach Fall," I wondered what was going through John's head during the cab ride back to Baker Street to check on Mrs. Hudson. This is my take on it.**

* * *

_There are more than enough to fight and oppose  
__Why waste good time fighting the people you like?  
__Who will fall defending your name?  
__Don't feel so ashamed to have friends._

* * *

_Bloody hell. Bloody, bloody hell_. John squirmed in the backseat of the cab, silently willing the driver to go faster. Mrs. Hudson. Shot — presumably by one of the assassins who had come to surround Baker Street. Their home. Only now it wasn't home anymore. John and Sherlock were fugitives. On the sodding lam like criminals. Oh, the irony.

When he was with Sherlock it was easier to contain his rising panic. It would not do to fall to pieces in front of the detective. Sherlock would scorn such a response and he would be correct, as usual. John losing his proverbial shit would not accomplish anything. But it was getting harder and harder for the doctor to keep a clear head while watching Sherlock being taken apart, piece by piece. What the bloody hell was happening?

Unravelling. It was all unravelling. Much too fast for John to keep up. Possibly even for Sherlock — which was what terrified John the most. Because Sherlock was afraid. He didn't say it, but John could see it. This wasn't like Sherlock's drugged response to the hound, that overly emotional, irrational kind of fear. This was different. John had witnessed Sherlock legitimately shaken to his very core. People being shot in front of his eyes. Sold out by his brother. Being cast out of Scotland Yard, driven from his home — their home — and arrested in front of people he considered colleagues. Sherlock's fear manifested itself in anger and frustration. When he'd suspected John was doubting him like the rest. When Brook/Moriarty was mocking him to his face. Someone who didn't know Sherlock well — granted, pretty much everyone — would think it was defensive anger. But John knew better. Sherlock was scared. This was no longer a game he could control. Moriarty was finally exhibiting the full extent of his madness and his power and Sherlock had become a pawn. A terrifying position for a man of his intellect.

Moriarty was taking everything away that meant anything to Sherlock. Gone was the little world they'd built for themselves. Sherlock and John. The detective and the blogger. Solving crimes and presumably making London safer. All gone. All he had left in the world was … John.

That fact seemed to have no bearing on Sherlock's ability to be a total prat. Brutally dismissing John's concern for Mrs. Hudson and barely letting John in on whatever master plan he was concocting. The key code. The notion that Sherlock's knowledge of Moriarty's key code could be used to reverse the villain's fortunes was one of two things keeping John from losing it entirely. There was hope it could be fixed. Sherlock always fixed it. It's just … what Sherlock _did_. And John knew his role well: keep the bloody idiot alive until the danger had passed.

The second thing was his firm belief that the detective was for real. The life he had been living with his friend was not based on lies. It was impossible. He'd seen Richard Brook/Jim Moriarty with his own eyes in Kitty's flat. It was just a flash, but when the journalist turned her back to fetch Brook's bullshit credentials, Moriarty had revealed himself to Sherlock. A flash of teeth and his soulless eyes revealing the depths of his insanity before retreating sharply back into the guise of the cowering victim. Poor, poor Richard Brook. Just a puppet at the mercy of the sick Sherlock Holmes.

And now Mrs. Hudson had been attacked. Again. Because of him and Sherlock. John had spent some long, uncomfortable nights in his life while deployed to Afghanistan. Sleepless nights full of fear. But somehow that night at Bart's had felt even longer. Unable to go home, unable to go anywhere or do anything except wait, sleeping fitfully in the lab while Sherlock thought. Even now John knew he was taking a risk in leaving to go to Mrs. Hudson, but the choice was clear in his mind. There was no choice. Mrs. Hudson was in trouble and he — _they_ — owed it to her to be there.

But bloody Sherlock. _I'm busy_, he'd said. _Thinking. I have to think_.

"You've done nothing but all night," John muttered to himself. He saw the cabbie glance at him in the rearview mirror and realized he'd been speaking aloud. "Eyes on the road, yeah?" he said sharply. "For god's sake, this isn't a ruddy pleasure cruise, can you speed it up a bit?"

How could he be so cold? The same man who'd wrapped a protective arm around Mrs. Hudson and declared that England would fall without her presence. None of this made sense. John rubbed his forehead and pinched the bridge of his nose, his eyes feeling sore and gritty from lack of sleep. Why did Sherlock persist in alienating the people who cared about him? His friends. It wasn't true that he only had one friend. That was the only thing Sherlock had lied about and even then John was certain that the sleuth was unaware of it.

John wasn't the only one. There was Mrs. Hudson. And Lestrade. John understood that Greg was only following orders when he arrested Sherlock. And John had already expressed his strong opinion regarding Greg's superior. The doctor rubbed his aching knuckles and allowed the smallest of smiles for the first time since everything had gone pear-shaped. It had been worth it. More than worth it to punch the smugness off that fat bastard's face.

_You have friends, Sherlock. People who will go down defending your name. Stop pushing us away, you stubborn git_.

What was that thing Sherlock had said before John had lost his temper and stormed out?

"Alone is what I have. Alone protects me."

What the hell was that? John remembered what he'd snapped back: "No, friends protect people."

Those sentences, uttered in Sherlock's trademark baritone, formed a lump in the pit of John's stomach. There was something deeply troubling about that. The last thing Sherlock needed was to be alone right now. He needed friends. People on his side. And he had them. At least for now. He needed to hold on to them, not dismiss them. Did he really think that having people he cared about made him weaker?

_Less of a robot, perhaps_, John mused. _One would think that would be a good thing_.

He exhaled a long breath through his nose and shook his head. Enough about Sherlock for a few minutes. He was at Bart's. He was safe there. Now John had to focus on Mrs. Hudson. He hoped he made it back to Baker Street in time to ride with her in the ambulance. Hold her hand and let her know she wasn't alone in this. And then he'd finagle a look at her chart as soon he possibly could. He would ensure she received the very best of care even if he had to administer it himself. She couldn't die.

_Not on my watch. Not her. Not Sherlock. Friends protect people._

When the door of 221B Baker Street hove into view and there was no ambulance out front, it occurred to John that it was odd that the paramedics would have contacted him before taking Mrs. Hudson to hospital. But, like the good army doctor he was, he'd snapped to immediate action when someone was injured.

Assess the situation first and ask questions later. Simple triage procedure.

What did not occur to John Watson was the possibility that Mrs. Hudson was perfectly fine. That he'd been tricked. That Sherlock had arranged for him to be away from Bart's.

Which could only mean one thing.

"Is everything okay now with the police?" Mrs. Hudson — alive and well and definitely not shot — asked over the sound of the handyman drilling the wall. "Has Sherlock sorted it all out?"

"Oh my God," he breathed. Then turned on his heel and ran back outside for the first cab he could find.

_Not on my watch, not on my watch. I'm the one who's supposed to be protecting _you_ while you sort this shit out, NOT the other way around, you sodding fool._

Sherlock had picked a bloody brilliant time to act like a real friend …


	10. Speedway

**A/N: Gah, I'm sorry it's taken so long to update. I had some major writer's block for this chapter, but I finally got it out. The next chapter I wrote weeks ago, but couldn't post until I had this one up. Thank you for your patience)**

* * *

_You won't rest  
__Until the hearse that becomes me  
__Finally takes me  
__Oh, you've done it now_

_You won't smile  
__Until my loving mouth  
__Is shut good and proper  
__Forever._

* * *

_Pah-thunk-pif_

_Pah-thunk-pif_

Sherlock methodically threw the squash ball against the cupboard in the lab, calculating the exact angle to send the rubber sphere rebounding back into his hand. Until a few minutes ago he'd been so lost in thought that he didn't even realize that he'd slid to the floor and had started throwing the ball. Once, a long time ago, he remembered being home from school on holiday and Mummy and Daddy let him stay up late and watch a film with them. _The Great Escape_. It was about British and American POWs escaping from a Nazi prison near the end of the Second World War. Daddy liked Richard Attenborough, but Mummy preferred Steve McQueen. McQueen's character, a dashing troublemaker, spent a lot of time in solitary confinement and would pass the hours throwing a baseball against the wall.

He paused in his throwing to look at the ball and the corner of his mouth quirked up. Funny, that. He was no Steve McQueen, but he certainly was trapped and planning his own great escape.

Moriarty's scheme hadn't fully come clear in his mind yet. It had to do with the key code. Something was keeping the assassins competing to keep Sherlock alive. But there was something missing. He threw the ball a little harder in frustration, throwing its trajectory off course, forcing him to lean over to make the catch. He took a deep breath and calmed, resuming the same pattern of movement and thought as before.

He was also thinking about what had happened at Kitty Riley's flat. Richard Brook/Jim Moriarty. At first he hadn't been able to contain a sense of sheer admiration for Moriarty's performance and the sheer skill it took to pull off this particular hoax. _Oh, you've done it now._ But that feeling was quickly replaced by the sensation of a noose tightening even faster around his neck. Caught in the spider's web. Sherlock had found himself in many tight spots before, but nothing like this. Nothing as brilliantly and craftily calculated as this. Nothing as diabolical and unmerciful. Moriarty had set the wheels in motion and he wouldn't stop until he got what he wanted.

And Sherlock knew what he wanted. He had put the pieces together as he and John had left the smug Kitty behind. It hit him hard: Moriarty needed Sherlock to die in order to complete his game. But not murder, no. His complete and utter fall from grace would only reach fruition if Sherlock died by his own hand.

Which he had no intention of doing, but no one else could know that. Well, no one except for Molly Hooper. They had a plan.

And when John Watson opened the door to find Sherlock sitting on the floor of the lab, the detective looked up at his friend and knew it was time to set that plan in motion.

* * *

Sherlock waited patiently. He knew John was worn out from the overwhelming events of the day and their mad dash across London. On the lam like common criminals. Sherlock had fallen silent, still thinking, but also watching, knowing that John would fall asleep soon if he ceased to engage him. John would assume Sherlock was working on a plan and he would kip while Sherlock put it all together. He'd trained his blogger very well.

_Sleep, John. It's all right. I will make it all right._

And, sure enough, John had put his head down on his arms, closed his eyes, and let sleep overtake him. Sherlock checked the time and settled back to wait. He could afford to let John sleep for a little while. The doctor would need strength to face what was going to come. As for Sherlock, this would be the last time he would see his friend for a long time. Perhaps forever. If the plan failed in any sort of way, it was entirely possible that this would be the end. Sherlock accepted this potential outcome as a possibility, but not as a certainty.

All those lies. Written lies. Twisted lies. Moriarty's web was intricate, but Sherlock always operated under the belief that there was always wiggle room. If there was a single soft or weak spot, he would find it, exploit it, and turn the situation to his advantage. He'd had years to perfect his survival skills.

_I've been cheating death longer than you've known I existed, Moriarty. I'm not afraid of death and I'm certainly not afraid of you._

Time passed. Sherlock checked his phone. Time for the next step. He sent off a text message and waited, rolling the ball under his fingers, trying to focus his thoughts and energy. John's phone rang and woke him up to feed him the false news about Mrs. Hudson's shooting. It was time to send the good doctor away. He'd go all the way down with Sherlock otherwise and this was one time when Sherlock didn't want him along for the ride. It wasn't hard to push John's buttons. To rile him so he would storm off in anger and not think too hard about any potentially odd incongruities with his mission. Emotion and sentiment were powerful tools of manipulation.

"She's dying, you machine. Sod this. Sod this. You stay here if you want. On your own." The hurt radiated off John in waves.

"Alone is what I have. Alone protects me." He recited the words robotically. Yes, he had to be the machine. He had to drive this plan forward. The reason for sending John away was fraudulent, but Sherlock's words were steeped in truth. He was on his own from here on in. It was the way it had to be. He would not allow Moriarty to drag John down with him.

"No," said John. "Friends protect people."

_I know, John._

Sherlock didn't allow himself to look up until John was through the door.

His phone beeped.

I'm waiting …

JM

It was time.


	11. Billy Budd

_Say, Billy Budd?  
__So, you think should?  
__Everyone's laughing  
__Since I took up with you_

* * *

_John_

The way is familiar now. The first few times, John had nearly gotten lost. Taken a wrong turn at Joseph Hargreaves and ended up at Henrietta Eldridge. But now he knows exactly the way to Sherlock Holmes.

He never brings flowers. Sherlock had no appreciation for them in life, so why would that change in death? But then again, if John were honest with himself, which he rarely is these days, he would admit that he doesn't bring them because the he hates to see them shrivelled and dead upon his next visit. Too much of a direct visual reminder of what this place is. A place for the dead.

"Hiya, mate," he says quietly. There are some stray leaves and twigs at the base of the polished, black headstone and John stoops to brush them away before he sits down. It feels a bit silly, but more comfortable somehow. Standing seems too formal. He and Sherlock always appreciated a good sit-down when they weren't running themselves ragged chasing criminals all over the ruddy place.

"Sorry I haven't been by in a little while," he continues, clearing his throat slightly. "I just … well, sometimes it's hard. Still hard to do all the normal things." He pursed his lips and looked around. "Well, not that hanging out in a graveyard and talking to air is exactly a normal thing to do, I suppose, but you know what I mean. Getting up and about and carrying on and all that."

He's brought a carry-out cup of tea with him. The hot beverage braces him, acts as a counterbalance against the innate coldness of this place. He takes a sip and smiles a little. "Would have brought you a cuppa, but people think I'm mad enough as it is."

Sometimes he can hear Sherlock's answers in his mind. _Mad? Why would they think you're mad, John?_

"Ohh, you have no idea," John chuckles, shaking his head. "Well, I mean, people have thought I was mad from the moment I took up with you. I remember the look on Donovan's face at that first crime scene I turned up at. She didn't know what the hell to make of me. No one did." He smirks briefly. "Hell, I didn't know what to make of me. What I'd gotten myself into. All I knew was that it was absolutely what I had to do. What I wanted to do." He swallows, feeling the familiar tug of grief around his heart.

"See, I'm doing better," he says, voice a little thicker. "Don't think I could have gotten that out without falling to bits even just a few weeks ago. But what I meant to tell you, Sherlock, is that yes, people think I'm utterly mad. They laugh at me. Not to my face, mind you, but I can feel it. Sometimes hear it. They think I'm mad because I believed in you. And even loonier because I still do. I always will."

He takes another sip of tea and reaches down to smooth the grass down over the sod. He tries not to think about the coffin buried deep below. Containing what was left of Sherlock Holmes. The transport. Utterly useless without the great mind to power it.

"I lost my job at the surgery," he says, quieter. "It's all right, though. They gave me as much time off as they could. They really were very understanding. Especially Sarah. But … I just couldn't. Even seeing her felt painful, which is more than a bit ridiculous considering you did all you could to mess up any chance I had with her."

_Wasn't my fault you let yourselves be kidnapped …_

"Oh shut it," John chuckles. "I can still bloody hear you. Maybe I am mad." He rests his chin in his hand. "I'm ready to work now, I think. I'm trying, but it seems my reputation precedes me. John Watson accomplice of the great swindler Sherlock Holmes. Can't seem to land an interview anywhere. Mycroft has been more than generous where money is concerned to an embarrassing point but this can't go on, Sherlock. I need to stand on my own two feet again. I know you'd want me to, as well. Maybe it will mean having to leave London, but it's strange … I never cared much about the city before. It was a place to live and work, but I guess spending so much time with you it's in my blood now. I don't want to leave."

He stretches out his bad leg and sets down the cup on the grass, leaning back on his palms. "I don't see the others as much. Lestrade calls around still. I try to get a pint with him every so often. I already told you about the new flat. Baker Street … I just couldn't, Sherlock. I can't. I hated to leave Mrs. Hudson, but I'll have you know I go for tea at her flat once a week and she is very well. She misses you. Dreadfully. Says the new tenants are too quiet and don't like it when she pops around. Says they're right snobs."

John chuckles softly at the memory, but the next thought turns the corners of his mouth down again. "I bloody well miss you, too. As always. But, Sherlock … there is just one thing …" he holds up his finger, shaking his head "… I still can't shake the bloody feeling that there is something going on that I don't know about."

He picks up the cup again and traces his forefinger around the edge. "I don't even say it aloud to anyone else because they all think I'm barmy enough as it is. Even the few who still believe in you. But I can't get it out of my head. Something about the tone of Mycroft's voice and Molly …" John stares at the stone because it seems to be the only place to look. Like he's carving out the letters of Sherlock's name with his mind "… Molly can't seem to quite look me in the eye since the funeral. And she was the last person with your body before the mortuary people took over. Now what do you make of that, detective?"

He pauses, waiting, but the voice is silent.

"I know. I know it's insane. And sometimes I think it's written all over my face and people look at me with a mixture of pity and disgust. I know it. I can feel it. But I swear, Sherlock," says John. "If there was some way … any way … any remote chance that you are still … if there was anything at all I could do to help …"

John shudders, feeling his control slip and the old hysteria building. He needs to slow down. To stop. He clambers slowly to his feet, picking up the teacup. He reaches out and touches the stone briefly, as he always does.

"All I'm saying is that I'd give _both_ my legs if it meant you could come back. I'd give anything. And if you are out there somewhere … somehow … tell me …" He swallows and looks up at the sky for a moment before whispering, "Don't leave us in the dark."


	12. Epilogue: The Lazy Sunbathers

_Nothing_

_Appears_

_To be_

_Between the ears of_

_The lazy sunbathers_

_Too jaded_

_To question stagnation_

Dear John,

This place is hateful. I loathe it. I imagine you would like it, though. And perhaps try to find some way to make it appeal to me, too, though I doubt it. It's hot and the sun is relentless. How on earth did you tolerate being in the desert for all that time?

People just lay about here. Lazy and boring people. I don't see the attraction in lying out in the sun all day. Getting drunk on watered-down cocktails. Some of them read, but rarely it's anything more challenging than the latest issue of _Heat_. I loathe them all.

But I force myself to join them. I sit out and let the sun transform me. Using my watchstrap as a marker, I see I am becoming quite bronzed, which is no easy feat when one is as pale as I and prone to burning to a crisp.

Sometimes the women try to talk to me. Sometimes they are young and wearing tiny swimsuits and they giggle when I tell them to bugger off because they think I am joking.

Why does everyone think I am joking when I tell them to go away?

So I have to make them understand in plainer language. A few times I have received a cocktail in the face as a result. Usually something overly sweet and tasting of artificial coconut. Repulsive.

Sometimes they are older and I occasionally engage them long enough to deduce their motives. Most are unhappily married or recently divorced and looking for a bit of holiday romance to recharge their batteries. Some of them don't mind paying for it. Some of them are already paying for it, but looking for some variety.

Sometimes it's the men who seek my company. Mostly older and quite discreet. A few times I was tempted, simply to break the monotony. Do you see what I have been reduced to, John? It's pathetic. I don't want to talk to anyone. Except you.

Thankfully I won't be here much longer. It was arranged to bring me here to recover from the fall and to let the dust settle, so to speak, before beginning my pursuit and dismantling of Moriarty's network. After the bruises healed and the bones knitted I started working on my tan. I tried to cut my hair myself, but botched the attempt. In retrospect, perhaps it was unwise to make the attempt using a box-cutter. Mycroft begged me for photos, but as if I'd give him the satisfaction. Fortunately there is a hair salon in the resort.

I don't care what they say; blonds do not have more fun, John.

This is the least fun place I can imagine. But next week I leave for Prague. At least that will be more interesting. Until then I can only hope someone is murdered here at the resort so I can occupy myself until I can leave this blasted place.

I don't sleep very often and when I do, I dream about the fall. Being on the roof at Bart's and hearing your voice on the phone. I can't imagine what it must have looked like, John. And I regret having to deceive you like this. If I survive this mission, I hope some day to return and make you understand.

Until then, all I have are these letters. Letters I can't send. Letters that aren't really letters because I am not writing anything down. Can't take the risk. No point if they're not going to be sent, anyway. This is what I do, John. I sit in the sun with the other morons and I think letters to you. I'm told you are coping. I suppose that's the best anyone could hope for. I do hope you have kept the skull. Try talking to it. It helps. I could use it right now. I have neither you, nor the skull. Just the lazy sunbathers and a wretched half-life of an existence. I hope it is not that way for you, John. Keep living and being the good man that you are. This is what I want to see when I come home. And I am coming home. Just wait and see.

Yours,

Sherlock


End file.
